


Circus Life

by aspermoth



Category: Atop the Fourth Wall, That Guy with the Glasses, The Secret Treehouse, The Spoony Experiment
Genre: Alternate Universe, Circus, Drabble Collection, Fun, Gen, Humor, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:16:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspermoth/pseuds/aspermoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roll up! Roll up! The folken of TGWTG, AT4W, TSE and the Treehouse are running a circus: come see twenty excerpts from their lives!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circus Life

It was the Treehouse lot who had originally nicknamed Doug the Nostalgia Critic, from his habit of watching nostalgic movies in his trailer and yelling at them. And he’d stuck with it because everybody needs a stage name, and it sounded more dramatic than just "Doug".

As the Nostalgia Critic, he was the one in control: he was the conductor, the orchestrator, the core of the circus. He was what united them and directed them.

He was the ringmaster.

And when he stood in the middle of the ring, the spotlight shining on him, he relished being the Nostalgia Critic.

* * *

  
Ask That Guy had always had a way with the lions. Some had called him a prodigy; some thought he was some kind of savant with a deep emotional connection to the beast; but the truth was much simpler: they were terrified of him. The lions knew by instinct that Ask That Guy was dangerous. Not a predator, but a Threat. Somebody they should obey and respect. And so they did his little tricks, jumped through fiery hoops and held his head in their mouths without so much as grazing the skin, because they feared him.

And he liked that.

* * *

  
Being a clown was the _greatest_ job that Chester had _ever_ had in his _life_!

Well, actually, it was the _only_ job he had ever had in his life. But it was still the best job he’d ever had because it came with free pies. _Free pies_!

He’d known a guy who ate nothing but pies once. He ended up as a blue-be-ma-berry. He hadn’t been a clown though. But Chester was, and he got to wear awesome make-up, and throw pies, and squirt water at people, and it was the _greatest_ job that he’d _ever_ had in his _life_!

* * *

  
She started off calling herself "The Nostalgia Chick" because she intended to be a distaff counterpart to the Critic, a sounding board for him, but she quickly developed an act all of her own and now she flies high above the ground with her BFF Nella. It’s amazing, but in its own way, utterly distinct from the Critic and what he does down below. And some criticise her for that: some say she should return to her roots. But the Chick doesn’t care because she’s happy up on the trapeze with Nella and in the end, that’s what matters most.

* * *

  
Sometimes, Nella felt just a little like her BFF the Nostalgia Chick was taking advantage of her. That she couldn’t trust her. It was just little things, really: a careless insult hardly noticed; a jump slightly mistimed; a grip on her wrist just a little too loose. You can’t afford to have an unreliable partner on the trapeze: it just leads to you getting hurt. Admittedly, she’s not in real danger – there are nets – but what if the nets gave way? What then?

But the Chick is Nella’s BFF, right? Nella can trust her.

It’ll be alright on the night.

* * *

  
Sometimes, Spoony regretted his choice of career. He could always have gotten a normal job, but no, he’d had to join the circus and become a tightrope walker.

He swallowed and glanced down. Twenty feet or so below, he could see the sea of excited, up-turned faces, eager to criticise, no idea how hard this was, how easy it was to slip and fall, especially during his dizzy spells. He had nets, but a ten foot fall into nets still hurt.

But he’d chosen this: he loved it.

So Spoony took a deep breath and stepped out onto the rope.

* * *

  
Doctor Insano’s fire-eating was the most spectacular anyone had ever seen, but then, of course it would be. No other fire-eater in the world had bothered to apply science to the art of fire-eating. New technology for protecting his flesh and clothes; new fuels that burnt brighter and were less likely to poison him; even new techniques that he’d created with computer simulation and tested with robots.

The Critic had promised that the inside of his trailer would be repaired before they travelled on.

And after all, his eyebrows would grow back with time.

It was worth it for science!

* * *

  
Black Lantern Spoony had a case of knives, lovingly sharpened, glistening silver, begging to drip with the ruby red blood of the living. Every night, a member of the Treehouse folk trembled before his board and he threw his knives. Sometimes, they made the tiniest nick and drew out blood. And every time it happened, he was tempted. Tempted sorely. To kill would give him power. To kill would give him strength. To kill would let him destroy the Spoony who walked the ropes high above.

But to kill would draw the Critic’s wrath, so he waits, and he plans.

* * *

  
In a lot of ways, Linkara’s act was a reflection of his life in general. The plates were the aspects of his life he was balancing: his tent-mate Liz, his friend Spoony, his Uncle Harvey, his stupid 90s obsessed cousin, his insane scientist fire-eating nemesis, reading comic books, updating his blog, saving the world, spinning plates. And he had to keep everything perfectly in balance. If one thing started to go, everything would, falling down around his head and breaking on the ground into shards of heartache and death and china.

But he wouldn’t give it up for the world.

* * *

  
Working the circus was nothing like working the clubs, but in many ways, it was better. Clubs were dark, dangerous, and – worst of all – smoke-filled, which played havoc on Harvey’s vocal chords, which was why he never lit his trademark cigarette. And most folks were too busy drinking to listen to him anyway.

But the big top was nothing like that. It was so much _better_. It was big, safe and airy. And though some folks were busy buying snacks and sodas, most were listening to him, to his voice echoing through the canvas dome. For Harvey, it was bliss.

* * *

  
It was official: joining the circus was _the_ most _radical_ thing that 90s Kid had ever done. After all, running away to the circus was what all the cool kids in stories did, wasn’t it? And here he was, doing the most bodacious act he could possibly be doing – getting shot out of a cannon! After all, a cannon was just like a _really big gun_ , right? And he got to do it the sound of Nirvana! And he could still read 90s comics and listen to 90s music in his down-time.

Life could not be sweeter for 90s Kid.

* * *

  
You almost never saw circus security, but everybody knew he was there, somewhere, circling, watching like a hawk. His gaze swept over every adult and every child who entered the big top, but their gaze did not pick out him. He was swift. He was silent. He was invisible.

Those who misbehaved did see him, but only for a moment before his fist crashed into their face and they saw only stars. Then he would eject them.

The only other time he was seen was at the last night celebrations, when the Ninja-Style Dancer took the spotlight and just danced.

* * *

  
Iron Liz still wasn’t used to standing in front of a crowd of people wearing little more than a skin-tight leopard-print leotard. She wasn’t sure she ever would be, in all honesty. So many people staring at her... well, it was unnerving.

And yet, at the same time, she adored being in the spotlight. She loved the gasps of amazement when as she lifted a parade of ever-increasing weights over her head with the merest flex of her muscles, the sinews in her arms taut with effort. She just loved screwing with expectations, and her act was all about that.

* * *

  
There were two things that people questioned about Film Brain. The first was how exactly he managed to keep finding new places in his trailer to store DVDs. You could hardly open the door without getting pelted by an avalanche of boxes, hence the nickname. And the second was where his energy came from. His supply seemed inexhaustible: he could rehearse his act, tumbling and flipping and juggling, and still have bounce to spare.

Many had tried to replicate his energy: none had succeeded. But the inspiration it gave all and sundry was amazing: that was his gift to them.

* * *

  
It was all about the music, about finding the perfect tune, about finding that one melody that spoke to man and horse and audience alike. It was the music that connected Paw to his animals: it brought them together on an instinctual level and drew a bond between them. He would spend hours playing different songs to them from his laptop, just waiting for that one perfect track that would give them the perfect act.

But when he and his horses rode around the circus tent to the wonder and delight of the crowds, Paw knew it was worth it.

* * *

  
At first glance, many would say that Pushing Up Roses’ job at the circus was demeaning, even sexist. All the magician’s lovely assistant does is stand there in a skimpy, sparkly red costume and look pretty, they’d say. She doesn’t _do_ anything.

But they were wrong. Roses wasn’t his assistant: she was his partner. And a partner is just as responsible for the magic tricks as the magician himself. But her sleight of hand and skill was so great that all the audience could see of her was her pretty face and her glittery costume.

Now that takes _real_ talent.

* * *

  
Todd in the Shadows was an enigma to many: the hooded magician with the passion for songs, the masked magic man of music, but to him, it all made perfect sense. In Todd’s mind, music and magic were much alike: many small elements combining to make a greater whole. In music, notes made melodies, and instruments came together to make songs: in magic, elements of deception and sleight of hand came together to produce illusions. Just as a few simple elements could make an opera, so could a few simple tricks make an elephant disappear.

It seemed obvious to him.

* * *

  
They called Rob "That Other Guy" because, well, that’s who he was. The Critic and Ask That Guy and Chester were big and loud and demanded attention: That Other Guy just... faded into the background. But he liked it that way. He liked being the invisible glue that held everything together. It suited him. He sold tickets, he handled the money, he made sure the backstage processes were running smoothly, and all the credit went elsewhere. Sure, he occasionally had a bit-part in the show, but for the most part, he was just That Other Guy. And that was fine.

* * *

  
They called them the Treehouse because they operated like their own separate little club away from the performers, like kids in a tree-house all of their own. They were like precious blood in an animal, keeping everything moving and alive: they catered, they set up the tents, they kept the performers supplied with props, they sold snacks and trinkets, and they supplied effects like music. They were everything, all over the place, everywhere but almost entirely unseen – unless forced to participate in Black Lantern Spoony’s act.

An invisible tree-house. A secret tree-house, one could say. But a very necessary one.

* * *

  
One of the duties given to the Treehousians was the sale of snacks, drinks and knick-knacks during the intermission, when Harvey Finevoice was singing, and they had a rota that dictated to whom the responsibility was given. One day you would have, say, Cy and Lady Tiger hawking the hot-dogs, sodas, bags of popcorn, little souvenirs – plastic figures of the performers, things like that – and on another day, you would have Jen and Mae, or Falcon and Angel, or Kara and Geth, or any combination of any Treehousian. No one person stuck on one duty: that was the Treehouse motto. 


End file.
